


Different

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alpha!Aziraphale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Implied coercion of others, M/M, Omega!Crowley, Unconventional ABO, i.e. the world is a bit shitty, mentions of sexual coercion or worries of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:40:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21594724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Omegas are supposed to want things. This omega doesn't.How on Earth does an asexual omega find love?Well...
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 73
Kudos: 405





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [UlsPi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UlsPi/gifts).



Crowley can sense the blasted Angel a mile off. No matter what strength of blockers he uses, to try to dampen things down, there are certain things that he just can’t. Single Alpha Angels being one of them. 

Which is ridiculous, because he has no interest in them. Instead, it acts better as a warning sign for him. Not all of them are assholes, but more of them are, than aren’t. It’s easier to avoid them, and wait for them to pair off so they can be smug and swaggery and just make comments about how ‘when he finds the right Angel to knot him, he’ll change his tune’, or ‘yeah, my omega was like that, turned out they just needed a good knot and now they’re totally fine’. 

They don’t seem to get that he - he doesn’t. He won’t. He - can’t?

Maybe he could. His body, when puberty hit, did all the right physical things. You know. Acne. Stickiness. Tenderness. Aching. More stickiness. Technically, he supposes if he stopped the blockers, he could breed. But then, an Alpha could take a fucking knot if they really wanted to (and made the effort). 

He just. Doesn’t. Want.

Doesn’t.

And no, it’s not denial. He watched the videos they all did, and instead of giggly awkwardness, or puffed up bravado, or distant, lingering lust… he’d found it rather…

Just.

Nothing.

Not disgusting, but not appealing. Not at all interesting. 

No, the disgust came from the absolute _insistence_ everyone had that he would - one day - magically just drop trou, bend over, get fucked and love it. So maybe it was true for most, but it didn’t work for him.

He even, at one point, tried to consider doing things alone, just to see if maybe they were right. Because they had to be, didn’t they? He tried to find porn. Or images of people he liked. (He liked people. Just… not like that.) He tried to wait for things to line up in the hormone region, but when he looked down, there was just… nope.

And a few touches just felt like he was rubbing his arm. Sort of. It was no more pleasant, there was no spark, and he realised he was being ridiculous and trying to force a thing that he clearly just did not want.

So.

Fuck them all.

If they think he’s broken, fine. He’s broken. But he won’t let them make **him** feel bad about it.

“Excuse me,” comes the surprisingly demure voice.

So the ‘fuck off and fuck someone else’ vibe didn’t work. Huh. But weirder, is that Alphas don’t talk like that. At least, not ones who aren’t bonded. And definitely they didn’t look all… slightly shy and polite.

At least, not around him. Maybe around more dominant Alphas. But not around lone omegas.

“...what?”

“I wondered if I might sit here with you to eat my lunch? The other benches are--”

Crowley looks. They are full. And this bench has only him. And his legs sprawled like he’s the damn Alpha, taking as much space up as he can.

It would be totally asshole-Alpha of _Crowley_ to refuse, even if it’s still rude for someone to think just because he’s an omega that--

“...I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude,” the Angel says, and one foot slides back to snap against the one taking his weight.

“...s’just lunch,” he grumps, and shuffles very slightly away. “Whatever.”

“I’m Aziraphale,” he says, holding out a hand with a sudden gush of a smile. 

“Yeah, no.”

“...I’m sorry?”

“If this is some joke you’re trying… did someone put you up to this?” He peers over his glasses. “I’m not on the market.”

“Oh, I-- I simply meant to be polite.” The hand falls. “I am new to the area. I… know you might expect I was being forward, but I… I did not mean anything untoward.”

Crowley tilts his head, sucking his teeth. “Huh.”

“I can leave, if you like.”

An Alpha who… doesn’t seem to actually want to push that. Right now. And who - by his mere existence - sends a challenge and also a protection. Either others would try to bump in to take over, or they’d respect the potential courtship that they saw.

“If you don’t try anything, you can stay.”

“Thank you.” He puts down a little box with rather more options inside than anyone really needs at lunch. 

Crowley looks away. “Crowley,” he says, as if he hadn’t just told the guy to fuck off several times.

“Nice to meet you.”

He does not echo that.

***

Aziraphale turns up every lunchtime, at the same time, and always asks ‘May I?’ before he joins. Crowley grunts, and side-eyes him, and wonders when the hammer will fall. It’s not.

It’s not normal.

He’s not normal.

And Crowley doesn’t like it, because now he’s being just as close-minded as everyone who tells _him_ what he should be.

And it’s not right.

“If I ask you things, will you - you’re not going to get the wrong idea, are you?” he ventures, gruffly.

“...not if… you tell me what the wrong thing to avoid is?”

Fair. “You’re not trying to - you’re not looking for an omega, right?”

“...ah… I… don’t think so? I mean… I suppose I should be, but also… no?”

“No?”

“...I always felt rather… confused. In that context. It’s…” Aziraphale plucks the crust from his sandwich, and feeds the birds with it, needing his hands distracted.

“I don’t want an Alpha,” Crowley offers. “I know. I’m ‘supposed’ to. But I don’t. It’s… I’m not like that.”

He’s never been able to put it into words, partially because no one has ever been prepared to listen. 

“May… I also ask?” Aziraphale stops ripping the bread. Ducks quack. He ignores them.

“...only fair.”

“...you… are not looking for… a mate?”

“Not in the way everyone tells me I should. Doesn’t interest me. That whole-- hole. Thing.” He makes a crude gesture with fingers and thumbs. 

“So it is… that you don’t like?”

“Well, and how everyone seems to think what my ass looks like should affect my whole damn life.”

Aziraphale makes a sound that is almost a sob, and Crowley turns in concern, wondering if he’s somehow - somehow - hurt him?

“What?”

“I-- it’s… I sometimes think I was either…” His jaw tightens. “Born wrong, or that… I… I don’t feel that… I don’t wish to do _that_ to anyone.”

“...oh.”

“I can… sense omegas. And I feel… drawn to some. But I don’t want to do what they want me to do.”

Oh.

Uh.

“So you… don’t want to… you don’t want kids?”

“Maybe. Kids. I just don’t seem to feel the thing that… do you think I’m wrong?”

Crowley’s sure he hasn’t breathed in minutes. “...no more wrong than me.” He glances up to the sky, then to his watch. “You… maybe want to bunk off this afternoon? Call in sick?”

“...what for?”

“I think you’re the only one I’ve ever met who I could talk to about this, who might understand. And - well - you’re different.”

And not objectionable.

It’s. It’s not like anything suddenly goes gush or splat. It’s not like there’s any stirring down there, but he could… he’s… maybe there’s something… else?

“I think… I would like that,” Aziraphale says, all big, puppy dog eyes like he’s the damn omega following in Crowley’s wake. 

Huh.

***

Crowley is pretty sure work thinks he’s finally found someone to fuck some sense into him, even if it could hardly be further from the truth. But if it means they don’t mind him buggering off for an afternoon to go for coffee with this weird Angel, then sure. 

It turns out he’s actually interesting. Crowley pushes him to talk, guides the conversation. Asks him about his life. His interests. His work. Aziraphale answers with growing ease, and a disarmingly soft smile. 

And - under it - this… odd… edge. Like there’s a sense of humour he’s kept subtle, or a sense of something he’s hidden from everyone. 

But is it just that he’s the only one Crowley has ever thought might work? Or is that a good thing? That maybe - just maybe - he has found someone, even if he doesn’t want to do the things everyone else thinks he should?

By the time they’re considering parting ways, Crowley realises they’ve walked all around London. Eaten twice. Had drinks in more. Aziraphale has a new book (which Crowley had indulgently bought him). And it’s getting dark, and it’s been hours, and he’s not once felt unsafe, uncomfortable, or afraid. 

He’s… laughed. And smiled. And felt…

Happy?

He swings around the pole by the Underground station, as the Angel grins up at him, burrowing behind his book like he’s shy and giddy and happy. 

“Better let you go home,” Crowley says, wondering if this is when it all goes wrong. If this is when it turns out it was a joke. If--

“Will you still meet me for lunch tomorrow?” Aziraphale asks, his knuckles a little white with fear.

He’s.

He’s in control. It’s in his power to say yes, to say no.

He wants to say yes.

Fuck. He does. This was nice. This was good. And maybe - just maybe - it could work.

“What if I wasn’t there?” he asks, cautiously.

“I’d be sad.” Pain in those eyes. “But I’d be there the day after.”

“And if I never came back?”

More pain, and swallowing, and Crowley sees that hurt and damn but it - no. No, no, no.

He tightens his arm around the pole, and uses a finger to tip the Angel’s head back. “I’ll be there.”

“You… will?”

“I will,” he promises. “And if I’m not… I’ll call you.”

“Oh!”

“That’s me asking for your number, by the way.”

The absolute joy and hope on Aziraphale’s face? It’s… yeah. Like being punched in the gut. 

Maybe this is why everyone wanted him to find someone, because - alright - that sensation is good. And maybe they get other sensations, too, but this one? This one he feels. 

And it’s more than enough. So, so much more than enough. 

He puts his name into the Angel’s phone, and puts a small ‘x’ after his name. And if he’s blushing when he hands it back… so what.

“See you tomorrow.”

It’s too early to know really, but also… it kind of isn’t. Crowley slinks onto the Tube, and sees the first, hopeful text on his screen.

It’s a thank you. For the day out. For the book. And a hopeful wish for him to have a good night.

He’s grinning like a fool, and he doesn’t care.


	2. Heating Up

Crowley was nervous. Nervous in a way he didn’t fully understand.

He’d been anxious around Alphas in the past, but anxious in the way that a voice somewhere in his head said _keep your legs crossed_ and _watch your back_ and _don’t let them take you to another location_ and _don’t let them buy you anything to eat or drink_.

Not _every_ Alpha was like that, of course. But one was enough. One who thought he could do what he wanted with an omega, and it be justified, or at least excused. And knowing he’d never have the ‘protection’ that others thought a mate brought, meant he had spent his life concerned that he needed to keep his guard up forever.

Until he met Aziraphale.

Aziraphale, who exuded Alpha hormones, and behaved like the calmest, most fluffy omega in existence. It was a complete paradox. His body was clearly built for one thing, and his spirit for another entirely.

Aziraphale, who brought out in Crowley an urge to protect. He was clearly capable of brushing people off, but had no drive to. He was gentle, softly-spoken, smart, and amenable. He was an ‘omega’ in all but body, and he could likely walk through the world that way without worrying about anyone thinking him anything but ‘odd’. They would maybe tell him he was wasting his potential, missing out, but would they try to force him?

(Would they actually try to force Crowley, or was that just what they said, to cow the less obstructive into submission?)

Whatever the world wanted, Crowley did not care. Aziraphale was kind. And sweet. And nice. He made Crowley laugh. He had this earnest interest in things, and he would focus and fixate and then explain in dizzying levels of detail about his newest favourite thing. He would blush when Crowley said things to him. He would listen to _Crowley_ , when he had one of his passionate political soapbox moments. He would debate, without arguing. He would listen. And he would smile.

Crowley liked the smile. It was true and warm, and it made him smile back at him. He would enjoy that smile, and he would do more things to bring it out. 

Occasionally, he would worry the smile might - 

But - 

_No_.

The worrying was internal. There was no evidence whatsoever that this angel was anything but perfect. He was never pushed. Never coerced. Never made to feel lesser.

They’d go for a meal, and they’d talk like old friends. Or, like Crowley assumed old friends would talk, because he’d felt so isolated for so long that he didn’t even know if he had any.

They would go back to one another’s places, after work, and just spend time together. Taking it in turns to cook, or order in, and pick movies. Crowley would drive him home, or drive himself, and it was... it was nice.

It was almost like dating, but with the gross (to him) bit taken out. Maybe it was what they were doing, because it felt more than what he thought friendship would be. Or, maybe it was that everyone else picked to add that extra bit on, the bit they didn’t really want. 

Crowley was content with this, he was. Even if occasionally he wondered if they should do - or be - more. Not in a ‘I want you to touch me’ way, but in a ‘it wouldn’t be so bad if we just did this forever and even if everyone else thinks our genitals do the thing, they don’t need to, and then they leave us alone, but also I get to spend more time with this one who is actually pleasant and not annoying...’ sort of way.

He was content, up until the first time he was a little off cycle, and no matter that he religiously took his hormone control tablets, the edge of his physical heat hit him, and the suppressant part only took some of the edge off.

He’d texted Aziraphale. Told him he was feeling bad. Told him it was a rain check. And curled up around a hot water bottle, hating his body, and wishing for the end times.

...but there’d been a knock at the door, and when he hobbled over, ready to growl, he looked into concerned, blue eyes.

Shit.

He was reeking of the imminent and soon-to-be-crushed bodily preparation to mate. His ass was a clenching, pre-slick-sensitive mess, and he wanted nothing more than to eat, curl up, and make it go away.

And here was his - uh - sort-of-his Alpha, holding a tub of icecream.

“...the bus ride was not very fast, I’m afraid this might need your freezer very soon,” Aziraphale explained, pushing the icecream at him. “I also brought some painkillers, and what the pharmacist said was the best emergency blocker brand, and some tissues, and I thought I could give them to you and then pop back on the bus.”

“...what?”

“I had no other plans, and - oh dear - I hope you don’t think I’m being forward. It... it was just the way you described this part sounded unpleasant. And I wanted to cheer you up, and to show you that it’s nothing to be ashamed of, but if you don’t feel like company I just wanted to do something nice for you, so you don’t - well. So you don’t just feel miserable.”

It was the hormones that made him want to cry. And also punch the wall. And also cry into the icecream and then punch it into the wall. His body was a wreck, but it didn’t seem to link up to the thing he was supposed to _also_ feel, and--

“Does - does it make you... doesn’t it affect you, being around me, like this?” he asked, awkwardly.

“Perhaps. I wanted to help, even before I was near you, and now I just want to even more. But I think that’s mostly because I want to see you happy,” Aziraphale replied, very softly.

“No... sudden urge to make a real omega out of me?”

“My dear, no one could. Not even if they tried.”

That was so... fucking touching. Crowley grabbed the other’s shirt, and pulled him in for a fierce kiss. It was filled with affection, emotion, longing... but the longing was for something different. Something... them.

“You’re a literal angel,” Crowley sniffed, when he rocked back onto his heels. “But you bought too much, and if I eat all that, I will be sick.”

“...you could always... save some?”

“I could always _share_ ,” he corrected him.

He could honestly say, never in his life had he thought he’d be both prepared to - and _eager_ to - allow anyone near him when he felt so vulnerable and uncomfortable. It was unseemly, and unlike him, and totally not how he wanted to be seen. 

But this one... this one could stay. He could stay forever, Crowley thought, as he invited him in. 

He was safe with Aziraphale, and more than that... he liked him.

Something sort of hurt inside as he watched him fuss about the couch, pulling things in for them both. Cushions and coffee tables, then bowls and spoons. But he wasn’t making a nest for an omega, he was making... making something homely for them both. 

This one, Crowley thought. He would claim _this_ one. Who cared if it was the wrong ‘way’ around, he’d found someone he could be happy with. **Was** happy with. 

It wasn’t his churning insides that wanted him, it was something entirely different. And it was going to be just fine.


End file.
